Last year, I wrote a 40000 word novella called “Desdemona and the Deep,” which I finished on New Year’s Day, 2018, in Paris. Then I let it lie, sleeping dog-like.

Today, thinking about a favorite Hernandezism (“A review of one of Rafael Campo’s books declared it was one brave edit away from great; that always stuck with me.”), I found myself face to face with “my one brave” edit.

Well, with 3546 brave edits, to be precise.

So far. The novella’s not QUITE 40000 words anymore, thank the Horned Lords. And I’m only on page 18 of 73.

Still. There is a feeling of sloughing off, of de-doughifying, of a bloated thing sagging, expressed of its noxious liquids.